


Less Than One Mile Away

by quinnkng



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22843120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinnkng/pseuds/quinnkng
Summary: In which Quinn downloads Tinder.
Relationships: Rachel Goldberg/Quinn King
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Less Than One Mile Away

Quinn and Rachel sit on the back of Rachel’s claimed camera truck, smoking a shared Marlboro away from the bustle of set. Quinn is talking about some business crap that Rachel is really just not in the mood for right now. She’s spacing out on her phone. 

“Hello, Rachel? Are you listening to me? What’s got you so obsessed?” Quinn snaps her fingers in front of her face.

“Sorry,” Rachel shrugs, “Tinder. It’s kinda addicting. Wanna see?” She holds her phone out to Quinn, who cringes.

“God, no, I don’t need to see the dick pics.” 

“It’s not like that,” says Rachel, “or not entirely, anyway. I’ve had some nice dates.” Quinn raises an eyebrow. 

“Really?” 

Rachel nods, leaning over to show her: “This is my profile… and these are my matches.” 

Quinn watches her swipe through, scrolling through seemingly endless messages from both men and women. 

“Playing for the other team, huh Goldie?” Quinn asks, turning to look at Rachel, who just shrugs, keeping her eyes on the phone and trying not to blush with the feeling of her stare.

“Sometimes,” she says as Quinn smirks, amused. Then a crackle of feedback comes through their walkies; break over; back to work.

That night Quinn lingers late in her office, procrastinating the drive home. She straightens her desk and organizes her paperwork until there’s little left to do. Sitting on the leather couch she recalls her conversation with Rachel. Curiosity gets the better of her––she downloads Tinder.

Setting it up, she answers the basic account questions then struggles at the photo part. Scrolling through her gallery, she has nothing recent, and absolutely no selfies. She has photos from work and old Linkedin-style headshots. She stands to take a picture in one of the mirrors that hang on her wall and frowns at her reflection. After a long, hot day on set, her hair is piecey and her makeup is wearing. Suddenly this all feels so stupid, and she turns away from the mirror with disdain. 

She wishes she had taken a closer look at Rachel’s profile earlier, so she’d have something to go off of. She pours herself one last drink for the night and sits back down, thinking. Rachel said she had had some nice dates... Quinn could really, really use a nice date. Wagerstein had called her out, and as much as she’d deny it, there was some truth to the shrink’s diagnosis. Things with John Booth had fizzled out, as had every other flame in her pathetic life.

So, she reopens the app and continues, taking a selfie with the front-facing camera. It’ll have to do. She tries not to think about it too much and moves on.

The next step prompts her: “Interested in _men_ or _women?”_ She pauses here, that feeling of foolishness creeping back up. What dating pool would she really even be looking at? Dan and Mike? People she works with all day, who she screams at to leave her alone? She shudders at the thought of the guys finding her dumb profile and laughing with each other. They’d surely swipe left and she’d be the talk of the set. 

Which leaves her with women. 

She rationalizes this in that she’s just browsing, just checking out the app and looking at how other profiles are set up. This is what she tells herself as she downs the last of her drink.

The first woman to pop up isn’t even on her payroll. That’s a relief. Maybe there’s hope yet. A Natalie, who likes dogs and volleyball and craft beer. Quinn sneers and quickly swipes left. Then a Jen, who’s supposedly 31, but probably gets carded in the grocery store buying wine. Left. 

Then a familiar face.

_Rachel, 35_ _  
_ _Less than one mile away._

Her eyes grow wide and she instantly clicks her phone off as if she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to. How does this millennial bullshit work? Has Rachel already seen her? And ‘ _less than one mile away,’_ is she still on set, sleeping in her truck tonight? She imagines her sitting in that sad, musty cot, coming across her awful selfie, laughing. Taking a breath, she tentatively reopens the app. She clicks on Rachel’s profile, reads her bio. 

_Feminist. Activist. Noodle enthusiast. I create true love for a living. I don’t care about the dog in your photos._

Quinn almost laughs at her self-branding, still clinging to that ‘feminist’ label despite the misogynistic pot of horrors she stirs on the daily. She clicks through her pictures. A selfie at home, a photo from last season’s wrap party where Dan is in the periphery looking at her warily––it would have been wise to crop that out. Next is a photo on the beach, with the edges of a beard beside her cropped out with disregard: definitely Jeremy.

If Quinn didn’t know her, it would look good. It would read well. She lingers on the most recent looking picture, where she looks happy and relaxed with a sun-kissed glow to her skin that she’s never seen on set. It’s leagues stronger than her own low-light grainy-ass selfie. She tries to swipe out of her profile, then the screen lights up blue. 

_You’ve SUPER-LIKED Rachel!_

_Be notified when Rachel likes you back?_

_Yes!_ _Not now._

“Wait, fuck, FUCK!” She holds her phone at arm’s length like it’s poisonous. Her heart is racing. 

“Take it back, take it back…” she mutters, tapping around the screen. She pays for Tinder _Gold_ , authorizing the payment with a humiliating fingerprint. It processes with a swirling icon, then welcomes her to the premium service. She doesn’t _feel_ welcome. She wishes she had never downloaded it in the first place. Exploring the new features, she searches for a way to undo it, then turns to google. For ten fucking dollars, she should be able to un-like anyone she wants, but it turns out the developers want to make her suffer. 

Quinn throws her phone across the room into a chair with a thud, sinking her face in her hands. She stands up and gathers her things for the night, picking up her phone last. Heading for her car, she hears her name. 

“Quinn?” Rachel’s waving from across the driveway. Usually, she’d offer her a ride home, but Quinn just rushes into the car with a wave of dread, slams the door, and screeches out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Rachel watches her go.

The next morning Quinn wakes up late, arriving to set cranky and severely under-caffeinated. Sitting down in her office, the hairs on her neck stand up as she hears Rachel’s voice out in the control room. She puts her head down, focuses on her paperwork. Then, a knock at the door. 

“I’m busy!” she shouts, then watches the silhouette in the frosted glass linger for a moment before leaving. She lets out a breath of relief. 

Then, the door opens. 

“Quinn. What the hell?” Rachel says, striding in and sitting down. Quinn stares at her like a deer in the headlights, unsure. Rachel frowns. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What’s going on?” Quinn asks, shaking it off.

“You tell me.” 

Quinn stares at her, motions for her to spit it out. 

“You told Jay he could take one of my girls?”

“God, Rachel, I don’t have time for this. You’ll do fine with what you’ve got.” 

“You said-”

“Look, I have work to do. Go cry into your pillow or something,” Quinn snaps, maybe a little too harshly. Rachel glares but finally leaves her alone, door frame rattling as she leaves. 

Quinn sighs, running a hand through her hair. This time she’s safe, and it’s miraculous considering how much Rachel’s been glued to her phone lately. It feels like punishment, a cruel limbo she’s forced to live in, where Rachel can stroll over and humiliate her at any moment in the middle of her workday.

Quinn makes it a point to avoid her producer for the rest of the day. It goes by quickly, with more than enough crises to keep her occupied and out of Rachel’s line of fire, for the most part. It’s a success––until wrap. 

She’s sitting in the control room, bathed in LCD light. Her arms are crossed, leaning back in her chair while she watches the monitors with tired, glossy eyes. Rain beats hard on the roof, a steady drumming to accompany her shitty security cam entertainment. The girls are all getting ready for bed, pursuing a solid 8 hours of beauty sleep to prepare for another day––another chance at finding true love. How nice it must be to “trust the process,” for every girl to believe wholeheartedly in their uniqueness. She chuckles; if only they knew the casting process, that they’re all essentially different versions of the same bimbo.

Then, the door swings open with a rush of humidity. 

“What are you still doing here?” Rachel asks, plopping down in a chair beside her. Quinn bristles.

“Just wrapping up,” she says, picks at a hangnail, waits for something else from Rachel. Rachel just sits there, gnawing on her own fingers and staring far away. She looks exhausted. “You need something?” Quinn asks. 

“Uh, actually yeah, since you’re still here…” Rachel starts, giving her a tentative side-eye, “I’m locked out of the truck.” 

“Jesus,” sighs Quinn, turning to look squarely at Rachel who rolls her eyes. 

“I don’t need your shit, can you just get me the keys?”

“No, Rachel, what happened to your apartment?”

“It’s complicated.” 

They sit in silence for a minute. Quinn weighs her options.

“You’re not sleeping in the fucking camera truck,” she says, and then before Rachel can protest, “you can stay in my guest room.” Rachel frowns, furrows her brow in confusion. Quinn stands wordlessly, walks into her office, and comes back jingling a key ring. “Go. Get your toothbrush or whatever you have in there. I’ll be in the car.” Rachel swipes the keys from her hand and leaves. 

The car starts with a low rumble, AC from the heat of the day turning on full blast. Quinn quickly switches it off and clicks through the radio stations. All the music is shit. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, eyes glued to the mirrors. She sees Rachel then, running toward the car holding a bag over her head, and Quinn pulls the car around the drive so she’s closer.

“Got everything?” Quinn asks as Rachel pulls the door shut behind her. Rachel nods, and Quinn hits the gas. 

The drive feels longer than normal. Quinn reaches for her cigarettes floating around the center console only to find the pack empty. She curses, then Rachel digs into her bag for her own, lighting one and passing them to Quinn. They smoke in silence, save for the staticky radio. Then, Quinn cuts the music. 

“This is awful.” The road noise becomes more prominent as they turn off the highway, rain battering the windshield. She glances at the clock, and at Rachel beside her, who’s unlocking her phone, the only light besides the dashboard and the cherried red ends of their cigarettes. Her heart rate floors it. This was an awful idea. A minute passes, and Quinn watches her scroll through twitter, then spends another minute on Instagram. She pumps the gas; if only she can get home and into her bedroom before-

“What the fuck is this?” Rachel laughs, holding the phone out to Quinn, who keeps her eyes glued to the road. “Do you want to tell me what this is?” she continues, laughing even harder.

“I’m driving,” Quinn waves the phone away.

“Quinn _super-liked_ me?” Rachel snorts.

“Shut it, it was an accident.”

“Oh no, let’s see this profile,” continues Rachel, “ _‘Quinn, 45, less than one mile away … Grey Goose on the_ _rocks_ ’––do you expect a drink waiting for you at the table, your highness?”

“Fuck off-” 

“Wait why are you even on women?” Rachel pauses, eyeing her incredulously.

“Jesus, I was just trying to see how people set up their profiles-” 

“Wait did you take this picture in your office? Yesterday?” Rachel’s already moved on, zooming in on the photo. Quinn rolls through a stop sign; almost home. 

“Drop it, Goldberg. Before I change my mind and leave you on the side of the road.” She finishes her cigarette and rolls the window down to toss it out, hoping the cool air will stop her cheeks from burning. As they pull into the driveway, she’s never been more relieved to be home––if only Rachel wasn’t hot on her heels.

Inside, Rachel’s put her phone away, tied her tongue for the time being, thank god. Quinn shows her upstairs, gives her a towel and pajamas to wear.

“Okay, we’re leaving at 5:30 tomorrow, so be ready. I don’t want to wait,” Quinn says, traversing the hall to her own room. Rachel lingers in the doorway to catch her eye as she turns around to close the door. 

“Yeah, okay,” she says, then pauses. “Quinn?” 

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” 

“No problem. Night,” Quinn nods uncomfortably, cutting their eye contact with the swing of her door.

Safe in her bedroom, she lets out a deep sigh of relief. This feels like the first time she’s been able to breathe correctly in nearly an hour, now with two closed doors giving her some much-needed space from the other woman. While their silence in the car had been uncomfortable, the silence of her bedroom feels deafening now. She stands still in the center of the room, listening until she hears Rachel’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards from across the hall. Yes, the space feels good, but the absence of Rachel also leaves her feeling cold, like when someone rips the covers off you in the morning, left bitterly longing for that warmth to return. It’s that same annoying pang of loneliness that’s been hitting her hard just about every single night until the burn of liquor dulls the ache in her chest. Only this time, it’s a fresh wound with Rachel just across the hall. Wagerstein’s words float through her mind again, and in this moment Quinn knows exactly why she cares so much about that girl. Her jabs are annoying, but even still, it’s a symbiosis. Rachel is just about her only person as of late.

After a quick shower, she crawls into bed. Before turning the lights out, she turns to her phone to set her alarms, but a notification catches her eye. 

_Rachel SUPER-LIKED you back! Start a conversation._

She clicks into the app, glares at the notification in her matches, well, her only match. 

_“Very funny,”_ she types. Rachel responds unexpectedly quickly: 

_“What is?”_

_“I didn’t mean to match you. I don’t even understand how to use this,”_ Quinn continues. 

_“I do,”_ Rachel replies.

_“And?”_

_“And I liked you back.”_

_“Very funny,”_ Quinn repeats, but she frowns, trying to ascertain the humor here. Sometimes Rachel is so damn hard to read. That, or maybe Quinn is just illiterate.

_“U know, you’re not gonna do well with just 1 crappy photo,”_ Rachel says, and the jab is familiar. Quinn knows exactly how to respond to this.

_“Fuck you,”_ she replies, then thinks for a minute, _“Is it really that bad?”_

_“No, it just doesn’t do you justice. Bad lighting,”_ Rachel replies. Quinn frowns, but it creeps into a hesitant smile as she processes what she thinks might be a backward compliment. She sits up and opens her camera app, snaps a picture in her silky tank top, sends it to Rachel. 

_“Is this better?”_

Rachel takes far too long to reply, those three typing dots disappearing and reappearing for what feels like forever while Quinn just watches, bites at her hangnail, wonders what the hell she’s doing. Inviting Rachel to stay over had been questionable enough. 

_“Gorgeous,”_ Rachel replies, but then keeps typing: _“But u don’t know your angles.”_

_“You’re impossible,”_ Quinn types back, leaning back on her pillows, rolling her eyes.

_“Let me help you take a good one,”_ Rachel replies, and Quinn bites her lip. She hesitates, eyes the door where she imagines Rachel waltzing in. 

_“Fine,”_ she replies after a long beat, and then she waits. A minute passes and another message pops through with that Tinder chime: 

_“Like, tonight?”_ Rachel has sent, and Quinn groans. 

“Yes, Rachel!” she shouts and then hears the doorknob turning across the hall. Her door pushes open tentatively, and Rachel slinks in with an unusually shy smirk. She looks good in Quinn’s pajamas, royal purple satin hanging off her skin, her hair still damp from her shower, laying gently down her back. Clean-faced and domestic, it’s a version of Rachel Quinn has never seen before, but thinks now she could certainly stand to see more of.

“Hey,” she says softly, and Quinn gives a rare smile back.

“You know my angles?” she asks, and Rachel kind of laughs, closing the door behind her. 

“Better than you.” She holds out her hand for Quinn’s phone and opens the camera. Walking around the bed, she turns another lamp on, lighting the scene to her liking.

“Okay, stand up,” Rachel orders, and Quinn does. “No, actually, sit back down,” she says, and Quinn does. “Not that way. Turn towards me. Not all the way- stop right there.” 

“Jesus Rach-” 

“Now smile,” Rachel says, and snaps a picture.

“I wasn’t ready!” 

“Shut up, you look great,” Rachel replies, and as Quinn rolls her eyes she allows a small smile at Rachel’s compliment. As she’s mid-eye-roll, Rachel takes another picture.

“Hey!”

Rachel just smirks and sits beside her, perching on the edge of the bed, handing her the phone. Quinn’s annoyance quickly dissipates as she finds herself staring at the best photo of herself she’s ever seen. It’s soft and flattering, and truer than any selfie or headshot has ever been. Shoulders relaxed and hands in her lap, she’s looking straight at the camera, a half-smile playing on her lips at the very moment Rachel’s compliment had hung in the air. Just as Domestic-Rachel had been a new sight, so is this version of herself. Shot through Rachel’s eyes she’s never felt more genuine, and it’s like a gift she didn’t even know she longed for, a mirror she didn’t know she was missing. The image reads rose-colored, but still honest, still true, with all her flaws and beauty right there––side by side.

“Holy shit,” she says quietly, after a long moment. “Are you telling me I should fire someone and make you DP?”.

“What do you mean?

“This is… nice.”

“I just know how to set up a shot,” Rachel laughs, “I watched a lot of _America’s Next Top Model_ in college.”

“Well shit, clearly it paid off,” says Quinn, and Rachel shrugs.

“It’s not hard when you have a good model,” she replies, and Quinn feels her skin starting to flush. Rachel quickly moves on:

“But I don’t know if this is like the vibe you wanna go for on Tinder. A picture in your pajamas is kinda, I don’t know, suggestive I guess?” Rachel rubs the back of her neck absentmindedly, and Quinn mulls this over. She’s right, more so in that the picture she’s taken is intimate, like something off the Everlasting promo reel, but actually real, backwards, with Quinn the one feeling like a princess.

“Fine, okay,” she nods, and walks over to the closet, swinging the doors open to reveal a collection worth more than Rachel makes in a year. “Costume change?” Rachel gets up and thumbs through the hangers with her.

“Do you have, like, anything you wouldn’t wear to a meeting?” 

“Like what?”

“Like uh, a sweater or something casual,” Rachel frowns, pulling out another blazer and putting it back. Quinn turns to her dresser, opening a bottom drawer and fishing out some cashmere. She can’t remember the last time she’s worn it, but the green matches her eyes and Rachel seems to approve. 

“Perfect,” Rachel’s eyes light up. Quinn puts the sweater on and Rachel considers the look. It’s soft and relaxed, a loose cowl neckline falling off her shoulders, making Rachel’s mouth fall open as she looks her over, then she frowns.

“What now?” asks Quinn, sensing the hesitation. 

“It’s perfect, but it looks weird with that top underneath,” Rachel says and Quinn looks at herself in the mirror. 

“Fine,” she says, and takes the sweater back off, moves to do the same with her pajama top. Rachel waits and watches her, and Quinn feels her eyes, looks over her shoulder and raises a brow. 

“Hey. Eyes down,” she says, as Rachel blushes and averts her gaze, fidgeting with the phone while she changes.

“Better?” Quinn asks, and Rachel nods. 

“Definitely,” she says, motioning her to sit back down in the spot she’d been in before. Quinn climbs back into the bed, pulling one knee up to her chest while Rachel fumbles with her phone. 

“Can you unlock it?” she asks, and Quinn reaches her finger to the screen. Rachel stands back and takes a couple more pictures before pausing to look them over. 

“Let me see,” says Quinn, and Rachel hands her the phone for her to find that what she thought was a normal smile looks more like bedroom eyes. She’s surprised, a little embarrassed, and looks to Rachel for her opinion. 

“I think you look amazing,” she says, one arm crossed around her chest, chewing on her fingers again.

“I think you’re full of shit,” Quinn says. 

“You don’t like it?”

“You said this would tone it down,” Quinn frowns, “this is… not toned down.” Rachel comes to sit next to her, looking at the photo again. 

“I mean, I don’t know…” she muses, then looks up at Quinn. “Maybe it’s your hair.” 

“My hair?” 

“Maybe it got messed up when you changed,” Rachel mutters, and reaches up to gently fix Quinn’s bangs. She runs her fingers through her hair and guides stray locks back into place. Quinn is frozen under her touch, heart racing like a bullet. Rachel just continues, focuses on taming the static. “Maybe… if I just…” 

At this point, there’s not a single hair out of place, and Rachel’s hand runs down the side of Quinn’s head once more, the electric buzz of her fingers brushing her ear, wrist falling to rest on her shoulder while she examines her. 

“Rachel…” Quinn says slowly, quietly. Rachel’s breathing hitches, she freezes as if she’s been caught doing something she’s not supposed to. Before she can pull away Quinn puts a hand on her arm, keeping it stayed there on her shoulder. 

“What… are we doing?” Quinn continues, and Rachel meets her eyes, unsure. 

“Setting up your Tinder profile,” Rachel replies.

“Fuck it,” Quinn shakes her head, “I mean, I already got a match,” she says slowly, as Rachel’s eyes widen, brows furrow in confusion. When she doesn’t say anything, Quinn continues, baits, “Unless you weren’t serious-”

“Oh, I was definitely serious,” Rachel says quickly, surprising them both. Quinn chuckles quietly, releases her grip from Rachel’s arm, and looks away. 

“Were you?” Rachel continues. 

“I don’t know, Rachel,” she says, and kind of smiles and looks up to the ceiling fan. Rachel puts a hand on her knee, drawing her attention back. 

“I think you do.” 

Quinn looks anywhere but Rachel, her confidence suddenly wavering. 

“Hey,” Rachel says, and she meets her eyes. “Don’t be such a pussy,” 

Quinn is anything but. So she brings her hand up to Rachel’s chin, tilts her head just so, and kisses her. It’s a small kiss, gentle and quick. Rachel’s lips are minty from toothpaste, sweet and soft and eager. As she pulls away Rachel smirks and Quinn rolls her eyes.

“Shut up,” she says, and kisses her again.


End file.
